Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [30]
Pitt led him back through the house towards the side door to the garden, passing Mrs. Geddes in the sitting room.
“Watch out for that rug,” she called after him. “Edge is frayed an’ it’s easy ter catch yer boot in it. I keep tellin’ Mr. Cathcart as ’e should get it mended.”
Pitt glanced at the floor. It was smoothly polished and quite bare.
“Mrs. Geddes!”
“Yes sir?”
“There’s no rug here.”
“Yes, there is, sir.” Her voice came quite clearly. “Smallish green one wi’ red in it. Edge is frayed, like I said.”
“No there isn’t, Mrs. Geddes. There’s nothing on the floor at all.”
He heard the sound of her footsteps and a moment later she appeared in the doorway. She stared at the polished floor.
“Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs! There should be one there, sir. It’s gorn!”
“When did you last see it?”
“Now . . . let me see.” She looked bewildered. “Yes, the day before Mr. Cathcart . . . got . . . well, the day before. It were there then, because I sort o’ nagged ’im about gettin’ it mended. I gave ’im the name o’ someone as does that kind o’ thing. Cobbler ’e is, actually, but stitch anything up pretty good.”
“Could Mr. Cathcart have taken it to him?”
“No sir,” she said firmly. “ ’Cos ’e don’t do that kind o’ thing ’isself. ’E’d ’a give it ter me ter take. I reckon it’s bin stole. But why anyone’d wanna take summink like that I’m blessed if I know.” She was staring as she spoke, her brow puckered, but not at the floor, rather at the blue-and-white vase which sat on the jardiniere by the wall.
“What it is, Mrs. Geddes?” Pitt asked her.
“An’ that’s not the right jar for there, neither. Wrong color. Mr. Cathcart’d never ’a put a blue-and-white jar there, ’cos o’ the curtains along at the end bein’ red, like. Big red-and-gold jar, ’e ’ad. Twice the size o’ that one.” She shook her head. “I dunno, Mr. Pitt. ’Oo’d take a great big jar like that, an’ then go an’ stick the wrong one in its place?”
“Someone who wished to conceal the fact that anything was gone,” Pitt replied softly. “Someone who did not realize how good your memory is, Mrs. Geddes.”
She smiled with satisfaction. “Thank yer—” She stopped abruptly, her face paling, her eyes wide. “Yer mean as ’e were killed ’ere? Oh my . . .” She swallowed convulsively. “Oh . . .”
“A possibility, no more,” Pitt said apologetically. “Maybe you should go and put the kettle on . . . make that tea you didn’t have before.” He knelt down on the wooden floor and ran his fingers gently along the edge by the skirting board. It was not long before he felt a sharp prick and picked up a tiny sliver of porcelain. He examined it carefully. One smooth side was dark red.
“That it?” Buckler asked, leaning over a little to look also.
“Yes . . .”
“You reckon ’e was killed ’ere, sir?”
“Probably.”
“There’s no blood,” Buckler pointed out. “Did they wash it all out? Not leave even a mark?”
“No, it was probably on the rug that’s missing.”
Buckler looked around. “What did ’e do with it? ’Ave yer looked in the garden? In the rubbish? I suppose ’e more likely took it away with ’im. Though I can’t think why. What difference’d it make? Doesn’t tell us ’oo ’e is.”
“No, I haven’t looked in the garden yet,” Pitt replied, climbing to his feet. “If I find something there, I would rather have a local man with me when I do.”
Buckler straightened his tunic coat and breathed out gently. “Right, sir. Then we’d better be about it, ’adn’t we?”
Pitt opened the side door and stepped out. The autumn trees were still in full leaf, but the chestnuts were beginning to turn gold. The asters and Michaelmas daisies were a blaze of varying purples, blues and magentas, and the last marigolds were still spilling brightly over the edges of the borders. A few roses glowed amber and pink, fading